He'd lost consciousness again, as the drugs that were still in his system took hold once more. Napoleon had woken slumped in the chair to which he was tied, his bonds chafing through the thinness of his shirt. His shirt. Napoleon shuddered slightly as he thought of Dawson dressing him. His last memory had been of his own apartment, of stripping for some well-earned rest, but now he was fully-clothed and tied up in the warehouse which had been a mute witness to Illya's torture. He was alone, as far as he could tell. Napoleon held his breath, listening for any clue as to the whereabouts of his captor but there was nothing but the odd sounds any building makes. He couldn't even tell how long he'd been held prisoner, as the dirt-encrusted windows allowed little light to pass through them. Napoleon had no idea how long it might be before Illya came looking for him. He must know by now that something is wrong, Napoleon thought. But how will he find me? Napoleon gave an experimental pull against the ropes that bound him, but there was little movement in them - he could feel the skin chafe on his wrists and ankles where it met the coarse fibres, the blood beginning to ooze out from beneath the ropes. He had to do something! He couldn't just sit here and be the bait that lured his partner into danger from Dawson. Napoleon stifled a cold laugh. How many times had Illya been used for just such a purpose? But now it was different. Napoleon had always been a little over-protective about his partner, earning complaints from the stoic Russian about his 'mother hen' persona. And that had all been before he'd realized that he was in love. Now there was nothing he wouldn't do, nothing he wouldn't risk, to keep the man he loved safe from this madman. So he had to escape. That decision made, Napoleon began to manoeuvre on the chair to which he was tied, swinging his weight back and forth while the chair rocked unsteadily. If he couldn't untie himself maybe he could break the chair and free himself that way? As he teetered unsteadily, Napoleon heard a loud click, just at the moment that he over-balanced completely. The chair toppled, taking him with it, sending Napoleon face-first into the dust, a cloud of it surrounding him as he struggled to breathe. As he lay choking slightly, the chair still unfortunately intact on top of him, more sounds echoed in the stillness of the warehouse. "Very good, Solo," Dawson's voice said. Napoleon looked around frantically, searching for the man whose voice he could hear, but with the dim light and the dust that was still settling he could see little. "I thought you'd try to escape. The chair is quite solid, isn't it? Can you hear a ticking sound, Solo?" Napoleon tried to swallow, trying desperately to clear the dust from his mouth. He could indeed hear a ticking sound and it was coming from behind him. Even as he squirmed, squinting through the darkness in search of it, the sound moved. "That sound you're hearing is my insurance policy," Dawson's voice continued, with a cold laugh. A tape recording, Napoleon realized, and the other sound... "You have an hour, Solo," the voice continued, "or a little less now. And I'm going to make sure your partner is there with you at the end, don't worry about that!" It must have been a mercury switch, Napoleon realized, thinking furiously as he lay there choking slightly in the dust that still billowed around him. Dawson knew too much about the other U.N.C.L.E. agents, himself and Illya included - their strengths and weaknesses, their determination to survive - he would know that Napoleon would do everything he could to try and escape and had planned for that eventuality. In his uncomfortable position, face down in the dust that liberally covered the warehouse floor, Napoleon could feel the sweat starting to trickle down his back. This was not how he had envisaged his final moments - he'd always hoped to live to a ripe old age, eventually dying in his bed, peacefully. It seemed as though James Dawson had other plans though, for both him and Illya. At the thought of his partner and the hatred Dawson held for him, Napoleon gritted his teeth and began to try to heave the weight of the heavy wooden chair off himself. If he could at least free himself from his current position. After a couple of attempts, Napoleon realized that he had no leverage that way and began to throw his weight from side to side once more, making a conscious effort to ignore the numbness that was creeping its way slowly up his arms. With a crash, the chair moved again, toppling sideways this time, Napoleon holding his breath for as long as he could, as the dust billowed round him once more. Above the pounding of his heart, Napoleon could heard the sharp ticking of the explosive device that Dawson had attached to the chair - his 'insurance', he'd called it. It sounded uncannily loud in the silence of the cavernous warehouse, each tick marking the inexorable passage of time and cutting another second from Napoleon's life. Would Illya come? Napoleon had no doubt that he would, knowing his stubborn partner far too well, the two agents having faced death and disaster together more times than he cared to consider. Would he know where Napoleon was? He'd recognized the warehouse almost immediately, but had no idea how much Illya truly remembered of his time here, or whether he even knew its location. Dawson's recorded words seemed to say that he would make sure Illya would be there, if only so they could die together.
Illya's fear grew as the minutes passed, though he tried to push it to the back of his mind. The continuing silence from Napoleon could only mean one thing - his return to his apartment the previous night had led him straight into Dawson's hands. If there were any other explanation for his not appearing in the infirmary this morning, then the Russian had no doubt that his partner would have called. As he passed through the corridors of U.N.C.L.E. HQ towards the exit through Del Floria's, Agent Rickwood following close at his heels, Illya's thoughts were solely with his partner. All he could think of was Napoleon, his safety more now than ever Illya's number one priority. "Mr. Kuryakin!" One of the secretary's voices floated down the corridor after him, her call no doubt presaging a request to see Waverly, but Illya ignored it, lengthening his stride as they reached the door leading into the tailor's shop. In a couple of moments, the two agents were through the shop and heading out of the door, into the cold autumn air. "Mr. Kuryakin?" Illya didn't turn when Melissa began to speak, concentrating as he was on attracting the attention of a passing cab. "Yes, Miss Rickwood?" "Are you sure this is a good idea? No one knows what we're doing." "That's exactly the way I like it," Illya said, opening the cab door and gesturing to Melissa to get in. "Who knows if Dawson was really acting alone." "Where are we going?" Melissa asked, as Illya leaned forward to speak to the cabbie, giving him an address. Illya settled back into the seat beside her. When he spoke, he did not look in her direction, watching the mid-morning traffic as it swirled around their cab. "Hunting," Illya replied, smiling to himself. "For Thrush."
Napoleon was beginning to understand how Illya had felt when he'd been held captive here. For the first time since he could remember, he wasn't hoping for a chance to escape, knowing that he was the living bait in a trap set to catch the person he cared for most. That thought tore at Napoleon even as he struggled helplessly against the ropes that bound him to the chair. If I could trip the explosive, he thought, then maybe Illya would be safe. Even before that thought had finished, Napoleon could almost hear Illya's reaction to that self-sacrificing idea - he smiled sadly, knowing that Illya wouldn't take such a gesture as Napoleon might intend it. So selfless, Napoleon, he could almost hear Illya say, his voice dry and sardonic. But did you think what I might have to say about you blowing yourself to bits on my account? Maybe that's not such a good idea after all, he thought. If I blow myself up, Illya will kill me.
Napoleon's apartment was empty, looking as though its usual occupant had just stepped out. It was only when Illya went into the master bedroom, Agent Rickwood shadowing him, that he found the confirmation he feared. Napoleon's jacket was lying on the floor, having slipped from its hanger, the creases in it even more pronounced than the night before. The bed itself was rumpled, sheets hanging half off the mattress, looking as though someone had been dragged from it in the direction of the door. "Dawson has him," Illya said, turning away. "You're sure?" "I have no doubt," Illya replied. "Napoleon would never leave his apartment like this - he is too fastidious." "What now?" she asked, still looking round the ornate bedroom. On the mantelpiece Illya found what he expected. "What is it?" Melissa asked, crossing to where Illya stood. Illya looked round as she approached and saw the way she recoiled slightly at the coldness that must be in his eyes. Doubtless Agent Rickwood had heard the wild stories of his life before U.N.C.L.E., the things he was said to have done in the service of his country. And perhaps, before now, because he had been kind to her once, she had dismissed them. The expression on her face showed that she believed them now. "An address," Illya replied, answering the question Melissa had asked. "And proof - Dawson has my partner and wants me too."
Illya was silent as the two agents travelled to the address they had been given - this time the Russian took no notice of the traffic. "It has to be a trap," Melissa said finally, when the silence became too much. There was a long silence and she'd resigned herself to it once more when the Russian spoke again, suddenly, sounding as though he was speaking from far away. "I know." Those two words drove into her, the certainty and coldness that they held a chilling reminder of the position that the man beside her held in their organization. After all, Melissa reminded herself, he hadn't got to where he was without being ruthless. "I'm not sure I should be coming with you," she began, uncertain of the reaction her words might engender. "Maybe I should call for back-up?" "No time," Illya said, sounding as though he were creating the words from nothingness, they were so precise and measured. The rest of the journey passed in silence, each agent deep in their own thoughts. It was clear that Illya thought only of his partner, fearing that he was already too late, that Dawson had taken some sick revenge on him as he blamed Napoleon for the humiliation that Illya had caused. Melissa's thoughts were of Dawson too, certain that this time the ruthless nature she had too often experienced had gone too far and that her partner was destined to meet his fate at the hands of the man who sat beside her.
It had taken him some time to find her grave. Even with the darkness of the freshly-turned earth as a clue, the lack of a headstone as the final pointer, he hadn't been certain he was in the right place until he stood there at last. It was raining, a steady drizzle that soaked through his overcoat, seeping into the jacket below - it matched the coldness of his mood. The grayness of the sky seemed to echo the solemnity of the moment for Dawson as he stood there at the grave of the woman he had loved. "They'll pay for what they did to you," Dawson said, his voice as cold as the rain. "It's all coming together now, just as I planned - soon both Solo and Kuryakin will die."
"You should go back to HQ," Kuryakin said, as the two agents got out of the cab at the address Dawson had left for them. "I should never have expected you to come with me." He turned to look at Agent Rickwood for the first time since they'd left Napoleon's apartment together. "Why now?" she asked, trying to keep her tone reasonable. "Why do you suddenly not trust me, Mr. Kuryakin?" "I told you," he said, "I shouldn't have expected..." "But I came anyway," Melissa said, her eyes daring Illya to pull rank on her now, to order her to leave. She knew he could - he was Number Two of Section Two, after all, and she was just a field agent, but somehow Melissa was certain that this would be the last tactic that Kuryakin would try. "He's your partner..." Illya began, sounding a little less certain of himself. "All the more reason why I should be here," she retorted, then played her trump card. "Unless you think I'm a coward as well." Even as she spoke the words, Melissa saw a cold smile appear for a moment on the Russian's face. He nodded slightly, a small mark of respect for her winning the argument, before he spoke again. "Very well. Since I can't convince you to go, at least promise me you'll be careful." "Always." Illya snorted slightly. "I've heard that one before," he muttered. "I'm going in," he said, more loudly this time. "If I'm not out in 10 minutes, call for back-up." "What about Dawson?" "What about him?" Illya replied. "He's your partner, regardless of what else he might have done. I don't want to put you in a situation where you have to kill him." "I could, if I had to." "I know."
It was dark inside the warehouse. Although Illya knew that this was the same place he'd been held captive, the same place that he'd been tortured, it held no memories for him. There was nothing special about it, no sight or sound or smell that made him think this is where it happened - it was just a warehouse. He knew this had to be a trap - there was no way that it could be anything else - but Illya pushed that concern to the back of his mind. The most important thing was to find his partner and try to make sure both of them got out of here alive. Anything else, like the slow and painful death of James Dawson, would be a bonus. Illya's hand groped through the darkness, sliding along the wall beside the door which had allowed him access, but when his questing fingers flipped the switches he found there, nothing happened. No surge of light that would dazzle all concerned, enabling him to pinpoint Napoleon's position. The door had opened silently, despite the rust that marked the surface, and now Illya hesitated just inside, waiting for his eyes to adjust then holding his breath to listen for any other occupants the warehouse might have. For a long moment, the Russian heard nothing. Then... there it was... a low voice a distance away, the words muttered and unintelligible. Illya considered for a moment what to do - deciding in the end that he had to take the chance, he whispered his partner's name. The muttering stopped, there was silence and then a low whistle split the oppressive stillness. Illya smiled to himself when he recognized the tune. Only his partner would whistle the Russian national anthem - it had been an in-joke between the two of them for such a long time. Illya headed confidently into the darkness, navigating by sound alone. After a few strides, he almost tripped over his partner, his hands coming to rest on Napoleon's prone body as he righted himself. "Now is not the time, Illya," Napoleon hissed. "You expect me to turn down a chance like this, when I have you completely at my mercy?" Illya asked, his hands travelling down Napoleon's arms to allow his fingers to examine his partner's bonds. "I don't want you to get the idea I'm not enjoying this," Napoleon said after a moment, "but there happens to be a bomb on the underside of this chair." "I knew this was too simple," Illya said. "How long do we have?" "I have no idea. Care to take a look?" Illya scooted round to the underside of the chair, feeling for the device. After a moment of gentle probing, he sighed and returned his attentions to Napoleon's hands where they were tied to the chair itself. "Well?" "It's in a sealed box, Napoleon," Illya said. "Bolted to the chair by the feel of it. There's no way of removing the bomb, so I think I should concentrate in getting you off the chair instead." "That's fine by me," Napoleon said, wincing slightly as Illya's fingers brushed the tender areas where the ropes had torn the skin around his wrists. As his fingers worked on the expertly-tied knots, all the Russian could hear now was the ticking of the device - he hadn't noticed it before, even when he'd reached Napoleon's side, but now he was aware of it, he wondered how he'd missed it. Each stroke was sharp, precise, almost hypnotic. "Nearly there," Illya said, after a few moment, as he felt the ropes begin to loosen. He knew, even as he spoke, that he was speaking to reassure himself as much as his partner. Just as the ropes began to give way and Napoleon was pulling free, squirming to reach down and untie his ankles, there was a loud click. "Well, Mr. Solo," Dawson's voice said. "Is your partner with you yet? If not, then he'll be too late to save you - by the time this tape stops you will have 30 seconds left to live." "Get out of here, Illya," Napoleon said suddenly, his voice sharp with worry. He was still struggling to pull himself free from the ropes, the numbness in his arms clearly a handicap as he tried to reach down and untie his ankles. Even as Illya tried to help him, reaching down to where the American was fumbling with his bonds, Napoleon slapped his hands away. "GO!" he shouted, frustration and fear in his voice. "I'm not leaving you," Illya said calmly, ignoring the tone of Napoleon's voice and reaching down again to try to help him. "My legs are numb, Illya," Napoleon said, in a more reasonable tone, as if trying to explain something to a particularly stupid child. "Please." Even as his hands worked at the knots, Illya knew it was too late - he could feel Napoleon's fingers still working frantically at the ropes even as he pushed himself away, reaching out to wrap his fingers round his partner's hands, to still them. "No... Illya..." "Shhh..." Illya said, crouching down in the dust beside his partner. Keeping one hand wrapped around the American's hands, Illya reached out with the other and gathered Napoleon to him, awkwardly. "We're in this together, my friend, like always." The silence, when it came, was almost deafening. The timer had stopped ticking with an ominous click - in response, Illya had clutched his partner even closer, closing his eyes tightly to avoid seeing death waiting, reaching out for the two of them. It took a moment for the two agents to realize that they were still alive, then a new sound invaded the silence - the sound of hands clapping. "Bravo," a voice said, as a cold light flooded the warehouse.
"Anything?" Waverly's voice was calm but the operative working the communication system was anything but taken in. "Nothing so far, sir," she replied, noting the frown that marred Waverly's brow. How many times had she seen that expression on the old man's face in the past when agents had been in danger? Suppressing a sigh, she turned back to her equipment and tried again, calling Solo, Kuryakin and Rickwood, one after the other, each with no response. It was on the third run through that she heard it. "Rickwood here." The voice was shaky, little more than a whisper. "Sir?" She was too late even when she spoke, Waverly had already heard and was pulling the microphone towards himself with a hasty gesture. "Miss Rickwood? Where are you?" he snapped, frowning when the response was not immediate. "Sir, I..." she began. "I was with Mr. Kuryakin, outside a warehouse where he says he was held. He thinks Mr. Solo..." The voice, which had begun by being so tremulous, ground away to nothing, only silence coming across the airwaves. "Miss Rickwood!" "The signal's gone, sir." "Get me the file on Mr. Solo's latest case," Waverly said, settling back in his chair. "We need to find that warehouse."
It was Dawson, as they'd known it would be. "Very impressive, gentlemen," Dawson drawled, his eyes flicking contemptuously over the two agents as they still lay in a tangled heap on the floor. "Your willingness to die together is admirable - I'm sure some suitable fate can be arranged." Illya glowered back at him, his eyes like chips of ice, full of a cold loathing for the man who'd kidnapped his partner. Napoleon concentrated on pulling free from Illya's grip before turning his attention once more to the ropes that still tied him to the heavy wooden chair. Within a few moments, Napoleon was free of his bonds, still conscious of the warmth of his partner's body blanketing him. It was as though Illya was trying to keep himself between Napoleon and Dawson and he wasn't sure whether to be reassured or annoyed by this sudden protectiveness. "Illya," he muttered, pulling reluctantly against the arms that were still wrapped around his torso. Illya ignored him, his attention still focussed on the traitor. Napoleon began to feel the life returning to his legs, the blood rushing back into the limbs which had been cramped before. From where he was still lying, awkwardly positioned half on the dust-strewn warehouse floor and half on the chair, he looked up at the sneering face of the man before them. "Why did you do it, Dawson?" Illya snarled. "What did you hope to gain by betraying U.N.C.L.E.?" "Revenge, Kuryakin," Dawson replied, his eyes cold with hatred. "You didn't go along with my plan - you survived and the woman I loved died. That wasn't the way it was supposed to happen!" "The woman you loved was a psychopath," Napoleon said, smiling to himself as he saw the way that Dawson reacted to those words, turning his attention away from Illya for the first time. "She was an artist, so I gave her a subject worthy of her skills - I gave her your partner." "You set him up?" Napoleon snapped, trying to pull away from Illya's grip, to force life into his legs again so that he could get to Dawson, avenge the torture his partner had experienced. "How else do you think she captured him so easily?" Dawson taunted, with a cold smile, as he watched Napoleon's futile struggle to stand. "I told her where he'd be, arranged for the drugs she needed, even handcuffed him myself." "How sweet," Illya said coldly, his voice betraying no emotion. "I knew that by destroying him, I'd get my revenge on both of you," Dawson continued, raising his gun slightly as if to sight it at the Russian's head. Napoleon tensed once more, feeling as though even a breath taken in the wrong place would cause the traitor to open fire. "Kuryakin didn't understand that I'd been partnered with a weakling, someone who had no place as an U.N.C.L.E. agent - he humiliated me, so he had to pay." "Your partner is no weakling," Illya replied. "Just a human being." "She's weak, just like you are," Dawson said. "Solo understands what I'm talking about. He's just like me. He knows that you need to be ruthless, let nothing stand in your way." "Then what difference is there between us and Thrush?" Napoleon replied, the anger he was feeling coming through in his voice. "If we use their methods, that makes us more contemptible than they are - the ends can never justify the means." "I thought you understood, Solo," Dawson said. "But now I see that Kuryakin has corrupted you too. Beyond redemption." With those final words, Dawson pulled the trigger.
The windows of the warehouse exploded, shards of smeared and darkened glass scattering across the dusty floor, as Dawson whirled round in the direction of the blast. He was dead before he hit the ground as round after round of ammunition hit his body, tossing him about as if in some macabre dance then letting him slump to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut. "Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin?" a voice called in the silence that fell afterwards, cutting through the ringing in the agent's ears. "Here," Illya coughed, trying to clear his throat from the dust that had risen once more when the assault on the warehouse began. "We're here." As he spoke, Illya began to free himself from the huddle that was himself and Napoleon, disentangling limbs that clung, shaking the layer of dirt and splinters of glass that had settled on the two of them. It was only then that Illya was aware that his partner hadn't moved. Illya remembered the look on Dawson's face as he was about to pull the trigger, the intentness of his stare, the hatred that was so evident in the traitor's eyes. He'd seen that look before, more times than he cared to remember, in the eyes of camp guards or Thrush operatives, and it always meant the same thing. Death. And then Napoleon had moved, twisting himself somehow from his awkward position to bring himself in front of his partner, just as the U.N.C.L.E. agents had arrived and begun their fortuitous rescue, just as Dawson's finger had pulled the trigger. Illya held his breath as he studied the inert form of his partner, reaching out a hand that shook slightly to push Napoleon over onto his back. It was the redness of the blood that drew his attention, as it trickled down from the thick dark hair at Napoleon's temple, sluggish and thick. His partner's face was covered in dust and his hair sparkled with myriad shards of glass. He looked so peaceful, his face was relaxed and his eyes, normally so full of life and light, were closed. "Mr. Kuryakin?" An unfamiliar voice came from behind Illya, confident but a little concerned. "Are you both okay?" "I... " Illya's throat closed on the words, his mind screaming its denial of the scene in front of him. "What is so wrong with the idea that I might want to protect you?" Napoleon had asked him once, back in Illya's apartment, what seemed like a lifetime ago. Damn you, Napoleon, Illya thought. Look where your protective urge has got you now...
"Sir?" As the agent brought out his communications device, he stepped away from where Illya and Napoleon were, lowering his voice as he spoke. "Report, Mr. Watson," Waverly replied. "We found them, sir," Watson replied, glancing round at where Illya still sat, his head cradled in his hands, by the side of his partner. "Dawson?" "He's dead, sir." "And Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin?" Watson glanced round once more, his eyes travelling over the despondent form of the Russian agent, while he considered how to reply. Even as he thought, there was a small sound, almost lost in the relative stillness of the warehouse.
"My head..." Illya was sitting in the dust of the warehouse floor, as though keeping watch over his partner, though his eyes were closed as he tried to drive from his mind the picture of Napoleon putting himself between the two of them and Dawson. At first, he couldn't believe he'd heard anything, though he knew his eyes had snapped open at what he thought he'd heard, and it was a few moments before Illya could bring himself to look. "Napoleon?" he whispered. "Did anyone get the number of the truck that hit me?" Napoleon joked, weakly, reaching up with a tentative hand to touch his head. When he brought his fingers down, shakily, they were smeared with blood. Napoleon frowned at them as if he didn't know what it was. "Napoleon!" Illya felt as if he were on a rollercoaster, swooping through a world of emotions that only managed to make him feel disorientated and more than a little queasy. He'd thought that Napoleon was dead. He'd been so certain - Illya remembered the way that Napoleon had twisted himself round even as the shot had been fired by Dawson, putting himself between Illya and harm for one last time. He'd been a little surprised at the expression of peacefulness that had graced his partner's face when he had turned him over, conscious of the presence of the unknown U.N.C.L.E. agent standing behind him. Illya had been certain that his heart would stop beating as well when he saw the blood still trickling sluggishly down Napoleon's temple, when he wished for a moment that he too were dead. He hadn't even bothered to check for a pulse, but had instead pulled into himself, cursing the injustice of a world where loyalty and love demanded such a sacrifice. Alone. That word had echoed through Illya's brain, taunting him with its finality, and it was then that the Russian realized that he no longer cared about anything. Any last interest he had in life had been snuffed out with the final breath of the man who lay on the dusty warehouse floor at his side.
My head hurts... Napoleon thought, blinking up at the light that came through the shattered wall of the warehouse. After a moment he realized that he was really still alive, despite the memory of Dawson's hate-filled face as the traitorous U.N.C.L.E. agent pulled the trigger. Then everything had seemed to explode, as if the whole warehouse had been blown away, and Napoleon was left to wonder if the bomb had been real after all before he lost consciousness. "My head," Napoleon said, more to reassure himself that he was able to speak than to say anything specific. He wondered idly where Illya was but it was all he could do for the moment to keep his eyes open, though a part of his mind was screaming at him not to fall asleep. Napoleon could feel the edges of his thoughts beginning to blur, even as he spoke the words, and it was only as someone called his name that he was able to push back the cotton wool-like grayness that threatened to envelop him. "Napoleon?" a shaky voice asked. I know that voice, Napoleon thought, wincing as a further wave of pain rocked him, seeming to make his thoughts echo inside his head. "Did anyone get the number of the truck that hit me?" he asked, his hand searching for the source of the pain and coming down smeared with blood. My blood, Napoleon thought, staring at it as if he could not imagine how it had come to be there. Mine. "Napoleon!" the voice repeated, more certain this time, with an edge of emotion to it that made the American look in its direction for the first time, rolling his head that way. Illya, he thought, as his eyes landed on the dust-streaked face of his partner.
"Agent Rickwood?" Illya asked, half his mind on the answer and the other half on his partner as they wheeled Napoleon into the infirmary. "She's fine," replied one of the U.N.C.L.E. agents who had raided the warehouse. "Or she will be once her headache wears off." "Good. I was worried about her," Illya said quietly, missing the look of surprise that flitted across the other agent's face. "Dawson didn't shoot her at least." "No. She was pistol-whipped and when we found her she was lapsing in and out of consciousness, but all she could ask about was you and Mr. Solo." Illya nodded, absently, as he watched his partner being moved from the gurney onto one of the infirmary beds. Even across the distance between them, and the obvious pain of the concussion Napoleon was certainly suffering, his eyes sought Illya's, as if he offered a lifeline. It was all Illya could do not to rush to Napoleon's side, though there was nothing he could really do for him here. He wanted to offer some kind of comfort and reassurance, but more than that he wanted to throw himself on his partner and never let go. The strength of will that it required to prevent himself doing that worried Illya and he began to consider alternatives. He wanted Napoleon, more than he'd ever wanted anyone else, longing for him in a way that he had formerly thought only applied to lovestruck teenagers. He could feel his face reddening as he contemplated what he'd like to do to his partner and what he longed for his partner to do to him. He had to get out of here, before he embarrassed himself. Illya turned on his heel, startling the U.N.C.L.E. agent who had been standing nearby - in his haste, the Russian didn't see the expression that crossed his partner's face as he watched Illya leave.
It was the way that Illya left the infirmary, without a backward glance, that had alarmed Napoleon the most. He'd thought Illya had come to understand something of the reality of how his partner felt about him, but now all Napoleon could do was wonder. Illya was now known to be innocent of the accusations that had been levelled at him and his plan to unmask the true source of the leaks that had imperilled U.N.C.L.E. had become common knowledge around the New York HQ. Was that all that had mattered to him after all? Napoleon shook his head as he thought back to what he had believed would be their final moments of life, back to the time when he had believed that Dawson's bomb would shortly be ending both their lives. He'd practically begged Illya to save himself, but his partner had responded by tightening his grip, wrapping himself around Napoleon as he struggled to free himself from his bonds, even as he knew that there was no more time. He had to believe that there was something to all of this, something more than just loyalty between partners, but seeing Illya leave like that had made him question even that. He'd been so certain before, remembering other moments of intimacy between them, but even Napoleon had to admit to himself that they didn't add up to much. Fortunately, Napoleon had been able to persuade Dr. Cooper to let him go in a matter of hours, though it had taken quite a bit of fast talking on his behalf and many promises to look after himself. One of the conditions she'd imposed was to insist that an Agent take him home. As Napoleon got out of the car in front of his apartment he glanced back over his shoulder briefly to thank the Agent who'd given him a lift home. That should have been you, Illya, Napoleon thought, more annoyed by the moment. Then I could have asked you up for a cup of coffee, and... He bit off the thought with an internal snarl as he entered the elevator to take him up to his apartment. Once inside the door, Napoleon turned to hang up his jacket, catching sight of his reflection in the glass of a nearby picture as he turned. Napoleon's hand went up instinctively to touch the white bandage that he wore, realizing for the first time how close he'd come to really giving his life for his partner. Even if that partner hadn't even bothered to hang around long enough to say thank you afterwards. Napoleon sighed, before turning and heading to the bedroom. Knowing he'd been kidnapped from there by Dawson, Napoleon had wondered on the drive over how much mess had been made when he was taken. As he reached out to push open the door, he was prepared for anything and sucked in a breath when the light came on to reveal that nothing had changed. The room was perfect, the bed looking as though it had never even been slept in, the cover folded down precisely. As he stood in the doorway, a little amazed at the pristine state of his room, Napoleon was conscious of a movement behind him. He whirled round, one hand reflexively reaching for the U.N.C.L.E. special until he recalled he'd removed the holster along with his jacket, his hand meeting only the fabric of his shirt. At that same moment, Napoleon's brain registered that the 'intruder' was Illya and his stance relaxed slightly. His partner seemed to realize this, allowing his momentum to push the two of them into the bedroom until the back of Napoleon's knees encountered the edge of the bed and he tumbled back onto its surface. All the air went out of Napoleon's lungs with a soft whoosh, and he found himself pinned to the bed by his partner. He sucked oxygen back into his lungs for a long moment before he was able to speak, his eyes instinctively going to Illya's, his mind noting in the most analytical way the dilation of the pupils he saw there. "Illya..." he began, before his partner's mouth stopped him from saying any more.
Illya had lain in wait for his partner, but as the long minutes had ticked past it had seemed like a worse and worse idea. He'd imagined what would happen when Napoleon returned, forgetting for a moment the things they'd both been through in the past few days, thinking only with the limitless energy of the libido. They would make love for hours, of that he was certain. So, when Napoleon finally came home, Illya was ready for him. It was only as the two of them landed on Napoleon's bed that he realized reality bore little resemblance to his imaginings. He didn't have the energy for hour upon hour of anything but sleep. When he woke, Illya found himself still fully clothed, still lying on Napoleon's bed, Napoleon's arms wrapped warmly around him, his head resting in the hollow of his partner's shoulder. It was clear when he moved, stiffening slightly in the embrace, that Napoleon had been awake already, and the arms that held Illya so securely tightened their grip almost imperceptibly, as if his partner thought he might flee once he woke. "I'm not going anywhere," Illya said quietly, "but we're both wearing too much clothing." He felt Napoleon chuckle slightly, the vibrations passing through his chest, and then the grip relaxed. Illya unpeeled himself reluctantly, pushing back gently with his hands on Napoleon's torso, raising his head until he could see his partner's eyes. There was a depth of emotion there that frightened Illya slightly, a warmth that he'd seen before, a recklessness that made his blood rush southwards. Illya's hands could feel the way that Napoleon's heart was beating and began to move then, as if of their own accord, undoing the buttons of his partner's shirt, before moving downwards and starting work on his belt. Illya could feel the warmth of Napoleon's hand as it slipped under the material of his turtleneck and began a slow and almost hypnotic stroking movement in the small of his back. The other hand was working at his waistband, the long fingers pulling gently at the zipper of Illya's trousers, dancing lightly over the hardness that lay beneath. Napoleon's belt came free, and then Illya's hand went to work on freeing the zipper, moving with a determination that was second nature, before slipping in, under the waistband, and down into Napoleon's pants. When his fingers contacted hot flesh, Napoleon gasped, arching his back slightly, the warm brown eyes snapping shut. Illya smiled to himself, before concentrating on freeing what he had found there, pushing to the back of his mind the sensations that his partner's fingers were provoking from his own body. He thought back to the first time he'd touched Napoleon like this and how different that had been to what he was experiencing now. That time it had all happened in Napoleon's office, and once he had realized Illya's intentions Napoleon had struggled, even if his struggles had been in vain - this time, his partner was a willing participant, his long fingers working even now to free Illya from the confines of his pants. As Illya went to pull back, to free himself and ensure a repeat performance of that scene in Napoleon's office, he felt his partner's hand still its movement on his back. "We do this together, Illya," Napoleon said quietly, "or not at all."
It took only a few moments more for both men to be naked, and even Napoleon's usual care with his clothing went out of the window. All both could think of was pressing against each other, and the feel of each other's hands. "Together," Illya echoed, as his hand travelled the length of Napoleon's body, as if his fingertips were mapping his partner for further study, skimming lightly across each scar, trailing gently across the skin that stretched tightly across Napoleon's pelvis. "Together," Napoleon stated, gazing deeply into Illya's eyes as his own hand moved and he watched the arousal building in Illya's eyes, as well as feeling the movement against his fingers. All he could think of was what had happened between them in his office, when Illya had been the instigator, and then what had nearly happened in Illya's apartment, where Napoleon had been the driving force. This would be different - this time they would both be equally involved, partners in this as they were in all else. The two men began to move together, hands stroking, eyes closed. They were truly together, moving in unison, as if they had done this a thousand times before, practiced movements, destined to draw a swift climax from two tired bodies that were already close to the edge from anticipation. For the longest time, the only sound was the movement of skin on skin, punctuated by the occasional groan, the sounds increasing in tempo as time went on, until, with a gasp and a shudder, both men came within a heartbeat of each other. There was silence for a while. They'd both used up most of their strength in what had gone before and now by tacit agreement had laid down again, tangled together in the rumpled covers. Illya nuzzled gently against Napoleon's neck as he curled his body into Napoleon's side, his eyes almost closing before his partner spoke again. "Why did you leave me there, in the infirmary?" Napoleon asked, emboldened by the fact that he could not see the emotions that he was sure blazed in the blue depths of Illya's eyes. "I couldn't bear it," Illya whispered, "seeing you there like that and not being able to touch you, to comfort you." "I understand," Napoleon replied. "It's okay." "No, it isn't," Illya said suddenly, stiffening slightly within the arms that were wrapped around him, though he didn't pull against the embrace. "I'm your partner. It can't be like this... we can't be lovers and work together, it's too dangerous." "Illya, isn't it a little late for that now?" "I'm serious, Napoleon," Illya replied, steel returning to his voice though he did not move. "I... I care for you greatly, but it's too dangerous." Napoleon was shaking slightly as Illya spoke and the Russian pulled back, alarmed. After a moment's inspection of his partner, he realized that Napoleon was laughing. "I don't see what's so funny," he snapped. "Illya," Napoleon began again, this time managing to keep his laughter under control, although it sparkled in his eyes. "Whenever anyone wants to catch me, they use you as bait. You hate me trying to protect you, but I do it anyway, despite you moaning about it afterwards. Somehow, I can't really see that there's room for much more to be worried about." Illya looked down at his partner for a long moment, his eyes narrowing as they took in the bandage on Napoleon's head, and he considered his partner's words. "Perhaps you're right," he said finally. When he'd conceded the point, for now at least, Illya relaxed once more and nestled into Napoleon's side again, allowing sleep to claim him.
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